Kiss the Earl

by Gina Lamm

  “You may come to regret that,” Patrick said mildly, looking in the direction of her discarded footwear. “We’ve still another mile to go.”

  “I’d rather go barefoot than take another step in those,” Ella said, wincing as she stepped on a sharp rock. Her hose were no match for the stony roadway. “So let’s go.”

  They’d only gone a few yards when Patrick stopped, a hand cupped to his ear.

  “What is it?”

  “Shhh,” he hissed. “Quiet. Do you hear that?”

  She listened, hard. It was so quiet out there that the sound carried fast and clear.

  “Hooves, right?”

  He nodded and took her hand. “It may be brigands. Come with me.”

  Leading her off the road, he motioned her to keep silent. Together, they ducked behind a tree at the roadside. Thankful for her black cloak, Ella huddled close to the trunk and the earl. Man, she really hoped there weren’t any snakes in this ditch. The thought made her shake, and she moved a little closer to Patrick. He laid a hand on her shoulder, pressing her closer to the trunk. The warm weight of his palm was comforting. In only a moment, three riders thundered past.

  Ella watched them go, their spurs flashing silver in the moonlight against their dark horses’ heaving sides. They were dressed similarly, but they moved so quickly she couldn’t tell much about their uniforms. She bit her lip, waiting for Patrick’s all clear before she spoke. When he nodded and helped her back onto the road, she asked him, “Were those robbers—or what do you call them, highwaymen?”

  “No,” Patrick said, taking her elbow and steering her down the road at a decent pace. “Those horses were of good quality, and the men seemed to be wearing livery. Hard to tell whose though, in the darkness. But whoever they are, they are on a mission, and we’d best be on our way.”

  Ella quickened her step, biting her tongue to keep from complaining at the discomfort in her feet. She’d been the one that had thrown her shoes away, after all. It had really come down to a choice between a few cuts and bruises and a likely broken ankle. She’d made the right call.

  But she did have to keep reminding herself of that every time her feet screamed at her.

  This was going to be the longest mile of her life.

  Four

  As the time passed, she didn’t complain, but dear Lord did she want to. The closer they got to the inn, the more she wanted to cry. Every sharp rock, every scrape of her raw skin against the ground, was a battle. But she didn’t want him to see how uncomfortable she was, so she sucked up the pain, tightened her fists, and matched him step for step. Damn his too-long legs. The agony in her feet was sort of a good thing, though. It distracted her from the now-dull thumping in her temple. Her head felt a lot better than it had before.

  Maybe she just needed a good nap.

  Under the thankfully bright moonlight, Ella watched as forest and field ran along beside them. And when, in the distance, lamplight flickered in a welcoming way, she almost whooped with joy.

  She’d never take her sneakers for granted again.

  “Please tell me that’s the inn,” she said as they got close enough to hear low voices and horses whinnying in the stables. Even though her feet screamed at her, she quickened her pace.

  “It is indeed,” Patrick said, glancing over at her.

  She smiled tightly back at him, hoping he couldn’t see her pain. Yeah, okay, so maybe she should have broken the heel off her other shoe and just worn the darned things. But it was too late now. All she wanted to do was soak her poor, abused tootsies and keep her pride intact.

  He’d offered at least six times to take her arm, to give her his shoes, even to carry her. She’d insisted over and over again that she was fine. She might not make it to the most important party of her life, but at least she could arrive at this inn under her own steam—even if it killed her.

  The road widened out, forking as part of it turned into the inn’s welcoming drive while the rest of it continued on its merry way. Together, she and Patrick walked up the drive, just past the stable entrance. It was only a few more yards to the door, only a little bit farther… Sharp pain suddenly blossomed in her heel, a stabbing feeling that almost caused her to cry out. But she swallowed her surprised squeak and thunked down on a bale of straw beside the stables.

  Whatever animal was planning to make a meal off of it would have to eat around her.

  “Miss Briley, are you quite all right?” Patrick bent to her, concern in his eyes. Ella waved him off with a strained smile.

  “Sure, yes, totally fine. But, uh, why don’t you go ahead and get us some rooms? I just want to, well, just to catch my breath. That was a long walk.”

  “Are you not frightened out here on your own?”

  Ella glanced around. There were lighted lanterns on either side of the stable doors, and several more decorated the small yard. The inn itself was only about twenty yards away. There were voices coming from both the stables and the inn. It wasn’t as if she were alone. And besides, she needed to assess the damage to her foot.

  “I think I’ll be okay. Just wave or something, and I’ll run right in when you’re done.”

  He gave her a quick bow, then turned on his heel and walked away on those long, strong legs. Ella bit her lip as she watched him go.

  Crap. What had she been thrown into here? She wanted to be mad at him for kidnapping her, but all she could think about was how she’d screwed things up for this poor guy. No, it wasn’t her fault, but because of her, he’d missed picking up his fiancée for his wedding. He must hate her.

  With a hissing, inward breath, Ella propped her ankle on her knee, wincing at the sight of her poor, abused sole. With fingernails that had been painted blue to match her outfit, she grasped the sliver of wood that had imbedded itself in her heel. It was about as long as her pinky and half as thick—much too big to be jammed into her foot, that was for sure. With a loud curse, she yanked it free and chucked it at the stable wall behind her. The tiny clatter didn’t come anywhere near to soothing her rage at the wood and, more honestly, her own stupidity.

  Freaking shoes. She’d never forgive herself for buying them.

  Stinging pain settled into a dull throb as she took stock of her injuries. Her tights were basically thin, ragged strips across her foot. There were scrapes, darkening bruises, and several small cuts on her foot, not to mention the new puncture wound. Blood had stained the splinter at least half an inch and was now seeping sluggishly down her heel.

  “Oh, for the love…” Ella scowled at her foot before letting it go and swapping positions. With her other foot atop her knee, she inspected it.

  This one wasn’t as bad—a couple of scrapes and bruises, but nothing like that puncture. She was going to have to be careful of that one. Who knew what kind of germs had just been invited to party in her bloodstream? When was her last tetanus shot? Had she ever had a tetanus shot? There was no way they would have any kind of vaccines available here.

  Ella let her head fall back against the stable wall with a thunk. The stars above her were so bright that they almost took her breath away.

  It was true. She was back in time for the second time in her life.

  But had the first really counted?

  Before, when she’d traveled to the past, she’d only been there for a few hours. And it wasn’t for her benefit—it had been to help her friend, Leah; to get her home in time to see her grandfather before he passed. But he’d gotten better. And then time had moved on, and Leah had gotten married, and even though Ella dreamed about what she’d seen and done in those brief hours, with every passing day it seemed less and less real.

  A low whinny sang through the stable walls, and Ella laughed softly to herself. She’d convinced herself it wasn’t real. She’d told herself that even if it had happened (it hadn’t) then it was a one-time thing (that hadn’t happened), and that was w
hat she got for eating, sleeping, and breathing comic books. Her line between fantasy and reality had become permanently blurred.

  Ella slammed her eyes closed and breathed deeply. Even the scents were different, more pungent somehow—sweet hay, the deep perfume of horseflesh, wood smoke. Like it or not, she was here.

  So what was she going to do about it?

  Heavy footsteps approached from the other end of the stable, and Ella jerked her cloak closed. Hey, she couldn’t be too careful. Patrick, the earl, was a gentleman, but she wasn’t sure about whoever owned those boots. Her eyes narrowed as she listened. Nope, definitely more than one set of boots. And their owners were talking too.

  “…the morning, and track the road north.”

  “But should we not continue on, sir? Perhaps Miss Brownstone’s abductor is traveling under cover of night.”

  Miss Brownstone? Ella leaned closer to the open stable door. That was Patrick’s fiancée, wasn’t it?

  “If she has been abducted, then perhaps, yes. But there was no ransom note, Garvey. She may have simply run off by herself.”

  The straw rustled softly beneath Ella as she leaned closer. She winced, hoping the sound had gone unnoticed.

  “If she has, then I feel for the poor gel. Lord Brownstone is furious. Minton swears he heard the baron vow to shoot whoever is responsible for his daughter’s disappearance. It is more than likely that earl she’s always been dangling after.”

  Oh, crap.

  Ignoring the pain in her feet, Ella hobbled toward the inn door. She had to go tell Patrick, to warn him that his fiancée’s dad was none too pleased with his daughter’s elopement. The fact that Amelia hadn’t actually left with Patrick was immaterial at this point. Patrick was the closest thing Ella had to an ally in this ridiculous mess, and she wasn’t about to lose him to his not-quite father-in-law.

  * * *

  Patrick very much disliked leaving his unwanted charge in the inn’s yard, but she had not left him much of a choice.

  He was no simpleton. It was impossible to miss the pain she was in. Perhaps she was no criminal after all. Surely to embark upon a life of crime, one needed the common sense not to throw one’s only footgear into the sward.

  But she had turned down his every offer of assistance. So what could he do? He’d contemplated simply picking her up and carrying her despite her protestations, but as a gentleman, he had to honor her wishes, pigheaded though they were. He’d assumed she would eventually break down and allow him to help, but she never had, damn her eyes.

  At least with her seated in the yard, she could come to no more self-harm. He would pay for her accommodation, ensure that she was returned to London safely, and then be rid of the chit for good.

  Patrick tapped his thigh as he made his way through the mostly empty taproom. Their walk along the road had taken such a long time that it was too late even for most of the drunkards.

  The innkeeper looked up from his ledger on the desk in the corner of the room, and stood. He took Patrick’s measure, and the earl drew himself up to his full height. He might be travel worn and covered with mud, but he was still a peer of the realm. The innkeeper did not miss the look of Quality, apparently.

  “Milord, you are very welcome to the Hart and Dove. How may I be of assistance to you on this fine night?” The rotund little man rushed forward, wiping his ink-stained fingers on his apron. The candlelight reflected off his shiny bald pate, his crossed front teeth showing in a genuine grin.

  Patrick inclined his head in greeting. He’d need to be careful here, use an assumed name. Even though the elopement with Amelia hadn’t gone as planned, he’d been seen departing London with a woman strapped to his back. “Hello. I am—”

  “Patrick, as I live and breathe!”

  The familiar voice coming from the shadowed corner of the taproom startled Patrick, and he turned, peering through the dimness. His friend and cousin Sir Iain Cameron rose from his seat by the fire, a broad grin on his face.

  “Iain,” Patrick said in greeting, stepping forward and gripping Iain by the arm. He smiled tightly and pitched his voice low, hoping his cousin would understand the unspoken need for secrecy. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  “London was beginning to bore me. Come, have a drink with me. Smitters, bring my cousin an ale.” Iain clapped Patrick on the back.

  Patrick turned to follow Iain to his table in the corner. Glancing back to ensure that the innkeeper’s attention was on filling a tankard, Patrick sank into the seat beside Iain.

  “Listen carefully,” Patrick said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You must not tell anyone that I am here.”

  Iain’s eyes twinkled, and he leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “Well, this is a funny turn, Coz. On some secret assignation? Dare I hope you’ve shed the shackles of respectability and run off with some bit o’ muslin?”

  “No, it is nothing of the kind. But for the moment, my presence here must remain secret.”

  “You may count on my silence, but you must do me the favor of explaining a bit more than that. Such an out-of-character request bears investigation.” Iain sank back into his chair and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

  Parting his lips to comply, Patrick wasn’t surprised when no words came out. He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. How was he ever to explain this convoluted situation to Iain? He’d just decided on telling his cousin the unvarnished truth when the door to the taproom flew open.

  Miss Briley stood there, her cloak halfway open, her eyes wide with alarm.

  The innkeeper slammed Patrick’s tankard of ale on the closest table. “Madam.” Smitters drew himself up to his full height, which was, admittedly, rather unimpressive. He adjusted his apron higher over his paunch. “I run a respectable establishment, and creatures of your stamp are not—”

  “She is with me,” Patrick barked, jerking to his feet, his temper finally getting the best of him. “You’ll watch your tongue, sir.”

  Iain glanced from Miss Briley’s red face to Patrick, then back again. A devilish grin curled his lips. Iain spread his hands wide and spoke. “Ah yes, Smitters, you’ve not yet been introduced. May I present my cousin, Patrick St. John, the Duke of Milldon.”

  Patrick’s fists tightened so much that his knuckles cracked.

  “And this,” Iain said, standing and gliding forward, taking Miss Briley’s hand to brush a gallant kiss across her white knuckles, “is his new bride, the Duchess of Milldon.”

  Miss Briley’s jaw hung open, and she stared at Patrick. He could do nothing but stand stock-still as the innkeeper bowed so low his broad forehead nearly scraped the floor.

  “My apologies, Your Graces. I did not know—that is, I could not have known. I beg your pardon. Please forgive my impertinence.”

  As he kept babbling, Miss Briley jerked her cloak closed and hobbled over to Patrick, pain clear in her face. “Listen, I need to talk to you in private. ASAP.”

  Patrick cocked his head at the odd expression, but Miss Briley’s tone left no room for argument. He simply nodded and took Miss Briley’s arm.

  “Your best rooms. Now,” he commanded in a voice he’d not used since his army days.

  “Oh nonsense, Coz,” Iain said smoothly, patting the red-faced Smitters on the back. “Being so newly wed, you’ll want to share a room with your bride. Don’t be so missish. Smitters, I insist you give them my room. It is the largest, after all, and Their Graces must have comfort.”

  Miss Briley’s cheeks burned bright, and Patrick sputtered, but Iain wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Smitters nodded eagerly. “Oh, you are too kind, Sir Iain. Your Graces, please follow me.”

  “Good night, Your Graces.” Iain gave them a cheerful wave, then returned to his seat in the corner.

  Vowing to murder his cousin at the first opportunity, Patrick mounted the fir
st stair but stopped when he realized that Miss Briley hadn’t followed him. He turned to see her gripping the back of a chair in the taproom, pain lining her forehead. Her foot was lifted high in the air. Pigheaded female.

  “Oh bloody hell,” he said, stalking back toward her. “No complaints, if you please.”

  She squeaked in alarm as he swept her into his arms, but he didn’t release her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her body rigid. He grunted as he mounted the stairs, more to irritate her than to express any discomfort at her weight. To be quite honest, she was soft and full of sweet curves, and he was much more concerned about maintaining his status as a gentleman than lifting her weight.

  She was a delicious burden, that was plain.

  “Here you are, Your Grace.” The innkeeper showed them into a room at the end of the hall. He quickly gathered Iain’s things, then gave another bow. “Again, you have my apologies. I did not realize that—”

  “Thank you, Smitters. You may leave us now.” Patrick turned his back on the innkeeper without waiting to see if he obeyed. A soft click sounded behind them as the door shut, and Patrick gently laid Miss Briley down on the bed.

  “It’ll serve you right if you just gave yourself a hernia,” she grated as he straightened.

  “Whatever that condition may consist of, you can be assured that I am in perfect health. You are not of a great size.”

  She pursed her lips together and blew in a most unladylike manner, rather like Argonaut. Patrick straightened his waistcoat and sat in the room’s only chair, a rather severe, ladder-backed affair.

  “Now, what was it that you needed to say to me so urgently?”

  Miss Briley shoved herself upright, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Though she attempted to conceal it, he noted the furrow between her brows and the way she kept her feet from touching the ground. A small smear of blood marred the coverlet where her heel had been.

  “Those men that passed us? I think they’re Baron Brownstone’s. I heard them talking in the stables, and they mentioned his name. That’s Amelia’s father, right?”